Estranged Equals
by Salysha
Summary: Sequel to Intimate Rivals. It was going well for a while, but then, things changed. Jin changed. Now, the rivals face each other once more as the eyes of the world are upon them and Jin runs a gauntlet against time. Tekken 6. Slash, yaoi, Hwoarang/Jin.
1. Torn Apart

**Disclaimer**: Tekken and Tekken characters are the property of Namco Limited. This is nonprofit fan fiction.

**Warnings**: Angst, UST, M-rated, themed around Tekken 6. This features m/m slash and yaoi, which means that two men are portrayed in a romantic, physical relationship. If any of these bother you, skip this story and read something you are comfortable with. This is a sequel to Intimate Rivals. Reading that fic is not necessary to understand this one.

**Pairings**: Hwoarang/Jin

Intimate Rivals started two years ago to date. The sequel is very different in tone, however. In Intimate Rivals, it was clear that the characters were striving for a common goal and wanted to be together, despite the struggles. This is no longer the case. The sex will be held back even longer and be featured less. I understand if this is not what you are looking for. If you get into reading this story at any point, your reviews would be much appreciated.

This story is also posted on AdultFanFiction (AFF). The segment that gets made into an explicit version will clearly say so.

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**Estranged Equals**

by Salysha

* * *

**Chapter 1**: Torn Apart

_It wasn't meant to be._

Nothing else came to mind as Hwoarang looked at the personal invitation to the King of Iron Fist Tournament 6, hosted by the Mishima Zaibatsu and the current company head, Jin Kazama. There was nothing more heroic or meaningful for him to think, but the pain was back. Hwoarang dropped the burlap bag aside and took the letter in both hands.

His chest burned still, and he had stopped wishing for the ache's end: it did not make sense to wish for the impossible. In his case, the impossible meant oblivion and forgetting about Jin.

He and Jin had started a thing together. He had abandoned everything in Korea and crossed the sea without a word to anyone. There had been nothing to hold him back, in the aftermath of the tournament. He had gone to make something of a feeling that had felt so right.

It had been okay at first; he had had time to recover, and he had explored the city on his own. But, as the time passed, he found himself in a country that did not want him and did not need him. He saw it in the looks and felt it on the streets.

Jin's obligations to the Mishima Zaibatsu kept him away long hours, which was a given. The remaining time, they had spent getting to know each other and doing that one thing. They had ventured into the bedroom and learned about it. Thinking about them, together, still filled Hwoarang with so many complex emotions, he wasn't sure where to even begin untangling the knots. He knew for sure that being on his own had not cleared anything.

In retrospect, they had jumped headfirst into making something out of something that was new to them both. They should have learned how to live alone first before trying to make it together. They had never been friends, where they should have been friends first. Hwoarang's breath caught so badly that the pressure clogged his ears, but he made himself follow the thought that still haunted his every step. After all was said and done, everything boiled down to the same conclusion: they had never been equal.

Jin didn't talk. Jin not making a fuss had been one of the traits Hwoarang had been attracted to from the start, but he couldn't deal with habitual silence. He didn't need Jin's exact schedule, but Jin didn't include him in anything. He went his own way.

There were other things. Jin was a moody bastard. _Not a bastard,_ Hwoarang corrected himself angrily. Jin was moody: he went from one extreme to the other in a way that Hwoarang didn't quite grasp. He got that the new position had pressure, and Jin had hit the ground running with his sudden rise in the ranks, but he couldn't deal with being the least of Jin's priorities. It was painful to the tenth degree to admit that he had been so into Jin, and Jin had barely cared for him. Jin liked him well enough and liked having him around, but it wasn't enough.

Jin had still wanted him, but Jin hadn't needed him, and so he had left. On the final day, he had told Jin that unless Jin said something to stop him, he would be gone by the evening. Jin had stopped at the door, reflected on something, and left for work. Hwoarang, in turn, had gathered his things and left the country.

Jin had called after him only once. He hadn't been able to pick up, and Jin hadn't called again. He had gone and found Baek Doo San, who had accepted him back without a word, and he had set out to make a life for himself. He hadn't ignored the news that got more worrisome by the day; he'd heard it, but he hadn't cared about it. As the world swore vengeance on Jin Kazama, he took himself and his grief to a neutral territory and tried to find a way to cope. Yet, despite taking a physical job and training like a fiend with Baek and minding a place on his own, he was still not exhausted enough. He still found ways to dwell on Jin.

It was so easy to belittle the time they had been together and dismiss it as nothing, as though a long-term thing was a merit on its own, but no outsider could ever understand it. No outsider could ever understand how it had been, and no one knew of them. No one would know of them. No one even knew that he had been in Japan.

At 21, Hwoarang considered his sex life effectively over. There was nothing more to look forward to. He had gone to a bar to do it like everyone else. He had ignored the glances from men and picked out a pretty girl, all curves in the right places, eyes cat-like and seductive, and she would have come home with him, too. The thought had made him sick. None of them were like Jin; none of them even began to compare.

But... this invitation. He wondered if it was hand-written. He considered pouring water on it and seeing if the ink would spread, but it would not have been of any use. The note wasn't hand-written, and there was no reason for it to be; the signature was a mere formality. Jin wouldn't be writing to him personally.

"Park! Get back to work." The duty manager had come around.

Hwoarang pushed the letter back into the confines of his vest and assumed a contemptuous smirk. "Sir, yes, sir!" he said a hauled a bag over his shoulder. He didn't miss the look of fury he was given, nor did he care too much about it.

This tournament, though... He was participating, for one final time.

**To Be Continued...**

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**Hearty thanks** to **Gypsie** (Gypsie Rose) for the proofreading!

**Published** December 18, 2010.


	2. Back in the Game

Thanks for the interest, folks! Chapter edited at the beginning and author's notes added (3/22/11).

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**Chapter 2**: Back in the Game

The problem was with intimacy. He could dodge the subject for days on end, but he wasn't dodging it. He hadn't been able to give Jin what he had been offered willingly. Jin had said it was fine, but he knew it wasn't true. Jin couldn't be happy with indulging him without getting his fair share in return, and the lack of reciprocation had begun to grate between them. After putting off the first try until the end of his patience, he had agreed to try it out, only to discover he hadn't had the stomach for it. He had gotten so drunk, and Jin had gotten so pissed off.

The memory that harrowed him was from a later time, though, after they had patched things up: Jin had turned his back without a word and offered, like he wasn't even human. He had been so disgusted, he hadn't gone through with it.

This wasn't what he was supposed to be thinking about, though. He was back on the Nipponese soil, following the route he had taken out. The same port felt entirely different now. Hwoarang was no longer an intruder from across the sea, but a visitor among others. Hwoarang was no longer driven to be on his way as fast as possible, but he actually found the steady flow of other, busier travelers soothing. Hwoarang was determined to keep the spooks of the past in the back. At will, he still had plenty of time to dwell on them: dodging his master's offer of a joint trip had made sure of that. He had felt better about going alone, and Baek hadn't pushed the point. Baek rarely did these days...

Pondering other people's motives hadn't done him much good lately, and Hwoarang went on to clear the arrival formalities. He still had a ways to go and a ride to hire, though not even that prospect made him particularly enthusiastic. It was time to don the professional mask and let go of the private woes.

* * *

Outside, the accommodation looked like a house, just as any. It wasn't any nicer than the one at the last tournament, which was a surprise. Considering how much Jin had hated the place, he would have thought that the man in charge would have arranged something better this time around. So much for having a hotel accommodation. Hwoarang supposed that arranging the facilities wasn't on top of Jin Kazama's to-do list, but still, the run-down look surprised him. They had seen this already. Not even the new location, much closer to the big city now, had improved the setting. It was void of class and made no excuses for the fact.

Hwoarang ventured inside and was wandering about, wondering exactly what the arrangements were, when a voice called out to him:

"Hwoarang!"

Hwoarang turned and found that he had been discovered by the laid-back, unchanged Steve Fox, who headed straight over to him. He was prepared to hold out a hand and conjure a friendly face, but Steve strode out to him without slowing down and grabbed him in a hug.

"Whoah, what the hell?" Hwoarang exclaimed, but he came to return the grip.

Steve let go of him first, with a grin plastered on this face. "Looking good," he said.

"Dick," Hwoarang said flatly, but he punched Steve's arm lightly to signal to that the statement wasn't meant as such.

"Like you were any different." Steve cocked his head.

"How you wound me," Hwoarang said, pulling a knife out of his heart, but Steve's good mood finally rubbed off on him, and he developed a lopsided grin, even if he felt embarrassed at making a display. A little pleased, but a lot embarrassed. "Been here long?"

"Naw, just got in. I saw some kind of a chart of the rooms layout; thought I'd take a stab at solving it."

"Sheesh...," Hwoarang said half to himself. So this place wasn't the crown of construction design, either? He couldn't wait to take his shot at the latest maze. Steve was giving him an eyebrow, and he settled to dispelling the seriousness with a remark, "These things come faster every year. We gotta stop meeting like this. What's been going on with you?"

"Ouch," Steve commented without notable offense. He wondered to himself if Hwoarang even realized how much on his death bed he had been at the last meeting. Almost dead at heart. The man was back on his feet, but his hair was a duller shade of red, and his outlook more chiseled. Hwoarang's clothes were modeled after a toned-down style that didn't quite befit his usual energy, but the eyes were still as dark and focused. "This and that. You know, always something... What about you, how's things? How's Jin?"

"No idea. Haven't seen him yet." The look on Hwoarang's face hardened. He didn't know what kind of schedules the big boss held, but he doubted Jin was going to be walking the same hallways yet.

"So, you want to go look around...?"

Hwoarang shook the grim thoughts off and sighed. "Better learn the name of the game now. I'll go look myself, but catch up with you later?"

"Sure, sure. Laters."

With that, they parted ways, and Hwoarang set out to explore the house and find his spot for the night.

* * *

_This isn't real._

Outside, the accommodation had looked like any other house. Inside, it was a different story. Hwoarang had looked around the day and the dread had come creeping back in. The feel was the same; the building style drooped to other styles only by a notch, and the differences were superficial: it was almost a replica of the last tournament house.

_What kind of a game is this?_ Jin was running the tournament, and this _had_ to be his doing. Hwoarang kept his anger hidden, but this was some kind of a sick joke. The thought fortified until there was no room in his head for anything else. Jin had hated the house as much he had, more even, and now...

He was going out of his mind. Hwoarang wondered if the imminent insanity showed on him, but he didn't think so; if anything, the storm brewing did. He figured he hadn't taken it out on anyone else, though; he had been fair with all he had bumped into around the house. Hwoarang weighed his options, and found them scarce: it was getting late. He had better head forward and find his place in this dark, brooding mess of a tournament.

* * *

He wasn't the only one up, after all; Steve barely dodged being knocked over. "Whoa!"

"I'm out."

That cleared Steve's head. He quickly backtracked his steps. He had been taking a stroll along the corridors—alone, he had thought. He took in his co-crasher: it was Hwoarang, carrying a bunch of stuff, distraught and unorganized and bordering on frantic. And now Hwoarang was saying... "Wait, whut?"

Hwoarang looked through him and threw his hands up, empty. "I'm not staying here." Before Steve's eyes, he started picking up what looked like personal belongings amid bedclothes.

"What's wrong?" Steve asked anxiously as he gripped Hwoarang's arm. Hwoarang tried to shake him off, but his attempts came across as half-hearted.

Hwoarang shrugged and looked away firmly. "The place is uninhabitable," he finally muttered.

Steve wasn't grasping it, but Hwoarang was up the wall, so it had to be something big. "There's something up with this place?"

"Yeah, something's up." Hwoarang started looking for his things again. They were right in front of him, easy enough to grab, and even that wasn't going well. The focus was lost, and any plans blew into puffs of smoke, one after another.

"You can't go anywhere, this time of night," Steve's voice came from a distance, friendly, blending into the background like it belonged there. "There's always something wrong with these places. I'll put you up. Come on. You don't need to explain."

Hwoarang's reaction was stalled, and Steve didn't let him think too long; he helped Hwoarang collect his stuff, taking some himself, and nudged him with a hand to his back. "That way."

Steve maintained a steady steering of Hwoarang the entire time and rebuffed his attempts at flight by steadily ignoring them, and the duo finally ended in front of a door that Steve picked open.

"Casa de Fox, here you go," he said and pushed Hwoarang into the room.

It was an okay room, decent and all. Not too roomy, though. "I don't know," Hwoarang said and shifted on his feet. He was irked, but lacked an outlet. He wasn't even sure where to throw his stuff; he felt trapped on all accounts.

Steve had obviously moved on already. "Oy. It's a bit tight here, so let me clear this up first." He moved his hand from Hwoarang and went forward, frowning a little while forming elaborate schematic coordinates in his head about the upcoming sharing arrangements.

"Look, I don't need to crowd your space—"

"You aren't; you aren't," Steve said apologetically. "Let me just clear this up."

Steve's things were spread out; Steve had already dashed forward to stuff them out of sight and make the room more presentable. Then Hwoarang woke to it, too, and started exploring around; it was a single-room, with a single bed and not much to go around for a second one. The place seemed decent enough, with even storage space available. Curiously enough, the only concern Hwoarang had was about pushing into someone else's property. He should just take off... What could he do; go back? He wasn't going back.

That thought dissolved the doubt, and he was back to being his own master. "Don't go crazy with it," he warned with a nudge to Steve. "If you're sure you don't mind, I'll bunk the night and see about free space in the morning. I'll just make up something here." Hwoarang was already bundling the blanket he'd brought and setting up the pillow for a rudimentary cot.

Steve looked at the arrangements suspiciously. "That's not gonna be very comfortable. We can figure out something; just give me a sec. I don't think I've even seen anything extra around, but there's gotta be something..."

"Don't worry about it—I've done this before," Hwoarang said wryly.

"If you're sure...?" Steve was dubious.

"Positive."

While Steve wasn't happy about the offered accommodation, Hwoarang rolled into the determination mode and set forth briskly. He pushed Steve into his bed from hovering like a damn gentleman and left him with no choice but to accept the way of things. Any thick clothes from Hwoarang's bag got pulled into extra bundling, and he managed to put together a resting place that was going to hold up for the night. He made his resolve perfectly clear to Steve, too.

As welcome silence took over, Hwoarang finally cooled down. He shifted on the bed; it could have been better, but it wasn't the worst place to sleep on, either. Any extra hassle could wait until the morning. He was starting to feel pretty okay, comfortable and drowsy.

"Night, Steve."

"Night."

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**Huge thanks** to **Gypsie** for the proofreading!

**Edited** March 22, 2011.**  
Published** February 1, 2011.


	3. Wintry Reception

Let me break the bad habits before they have a chance to take root. Everyone, thanks so much for your interest and gracious reviews! It was my intention to go through this story without author's notes that do not pertain to the story itself, in keeping with the mood of the fic, but I'll step outside my comfort zone to show my appreciation. The best laid plans and so forth... Note that the previous chapter now contains additional paragraphs at the beginning, mainly highlighting the hundred and one things that went wrong between the pair of interest.

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**Chapter 3**: Wintry Reception

The world was that much more a peaceful place in the morning. Hwoarang woke and wasn't in a hurry to get up. It was still early. He lay down more comfortably and welcomed the calmness bestowed his way. He stretched languidly and pulled the blanket tighter over himself. It wasn't very warm or superbly comfortable, but his position was livable. He felt infinitely calmer than the night before, though thinking back to it raised his heartbeat unpleasantly.

The room allotted to him had had nothing wrong on the outside, but an ill feeling had persisted from the start until he had found out that the trepidation had been for all the right reasons. It hadn't taken long before he had figured out that he had been placed next to the new orgy-room-to-be. There was no cooling down after that, and there was no escape from the hell of mind that had ensued.

Whoever was taking the action and whomever with, he didn't care. The manner of the action being taken he did not care about, either. Just because he was in the game did not mean that he wanted to hear about the bedroom life any more than before. He would not be made witness to anyone's debauchery.

A faint knock came to the door before it was opened, letting in white shoes and a pair of red pants, followed by the rest of the knight in shining armor. "You're up already."

Steve moved to the foot of the makeshift bed before crossing over, which Hwoarang appreciated. He was thankful for small favors these days.

Steve grabbed something from his bed and straightened the sheets before hunkering down as Hwoarang cranked himself up. "Morning there," Steve said, tilting his head. He was already dressed and looking like he had been up for a while.

"Morning," Hwoarang said as he pushed himself to sitting, feeling oddly scraggly and unkempt. It had been a while since he had been the last to get up.

Luckily, Steve excelled in normalcy. That was a fresh breath of air to the recent events. "How'd you sleep?"

"Not too bad," Hwoarang admitted. "Thanks for putting me up."

Steve flashed a grin. "Anytime."

Hwoarang took in his standing: here he was, camping out on another guy's floor, amid a life that was not living up to expectations, and in a tournament that was not starting out as much. There was certain caustic humor to it if he really stretched.

After realizing that morning wasn't inviting meaningful conversation, Steve straightened to his feet. "Hey, I'll go hunt down some breakfast. I'll see you later?"

"Yeah, you, too."

Steve left the room and left him to set about the morning at his own pace. There was little point in doing other than following suit. Hwoarang picked himself up and started arranging his belongings for the day.

* * *

It took a couple of hours before the corridors filled up. Amid the earthen colors and claustrophobic hallways, Hwoarang found the room acting for a kitchen and made for a passing breakfast. Then, he moved on. The faces were familiar, and he grunted greetings when they were called for. Xiaoyu came over to him as if he were a friend and stayed around to chat. He did his best to slip out of the conversation as soon as he could, even though Xiaoyu's disappointment was tangible and in no way did he feel good about deserting someone who emanated such desperate loneliness.

Anywhere he went and with whomever he talked, the fighters shared a common interest: they looked to exact revenge on Jin Kazama. Participation was not about dominating the toughest fighting tournament anymore, nor about controlling the full wealth of the Mishima Zaibatsu and its innumerable resources; this tournament seemed far more personal and much more malicious.

After listening to the rants of familiar fighters and a few he should have recognized and dismissing everyone's inquiries about his motives, Hwoarang had finally had enough. He dismissed the company from existence and left for solitude. He wasn't entirely successful in finding his own way; Steve soon joined him, keeping an eye out for him.

He acknowledged Steve with a wan grin, and Steve didn't say too much, until he said quietly, "Wanna go find a gym?"

It was a winning suggestion, if any. He was down with that.

* * *

Hwoarang ended up doing his thing, and Steve his, but the companionable association did him good. He wasn't entirely successful in thwarting past woes, but he came close enough. The intense training built his ability to focus to the point where he mustered enough enthusiasm to go rouse Steve. He dodged the amiable punch thrown this way easily and slapped Steve on the back not-so-amiably. Steve scowled, and he grinned.

The amicability carried over to the locker room, which remained empty of everyone but them. That was all for the better because he was ready to start thinking clearly. "Have you seen any lists?" He had no idea whom he was supposed to be facing first, and the lack of information struck him as odd. There should have been something.

"I haven't seen anything." Steve's stance clearly said that he had been thinking about the same. "I guess it all comes down after the opening gala. Can you believe there's actually gonna be one? Formal dress."

"Oh, God."

"No, _foomal_."

Hwoarang finished dressing with one shoe in hand and weighed it thoughtfully. "I wonder how fast this flies."

"Fight the urge, my friend," Steve said happily, though he urgently had to retrieve something from behind the locker and break the trajectory Hwoarang had plotted. Upon re-emerging, he handily snapped the shoe Hwoarang lunged his way and threw it back with a lazy arm and a grin.

Hwoarang settled down to fix the shoe in place. "I should've said something; just meant to say that I'll do a little scouting today and get out of your hair."

"Naw, mate. Why won't you stay? There's enough room for both of us, and besides, I'd appreciate the company."

"Thanks," Hwoarang said, but he shrugged a little. He abhorred being caught in anyone's generosity, and Steve was being generous. The room wasn't spacious by any chance, even if the generous sunlight willed the mind to believe otherwise; it was minimal upkeep all the way, and not his for the taking.

"Seriously, you're welcome. Think about it?" Despite the sincerity, Steve was prudent enough not to push the point further.

* * *

"This is killing me," Hwoarang said steadily and tugged at his sleeve.

There was nothing wrong with his clothes. The show over dressing up seemed to be a question of principle rather than factual resistance, and Steve decided to call him on it. "Aren't you being a tad overdramatic?"

"Murder," Hwoarang declared.

"There's no living with you. Come on," Steve said and pulled Hwoarang by the elbow.

They had decided to go to the opening together. It was only a natural continuum to sharing a room for the time being. There hadn't been a point to keep running: Hwoarang had gotten a mattress from his old room and thrown the place cutting wishes of good riddance. A day later, Steve had learned to let Hwoarang's complaints flow steadily out of one ear and contribute with the occasional retort. They crossed under a massive Mishima Zaibatsu Opening Gala banner and entered the reception building.

The setting was magnanimous. There had been no expenses spared and no corners cut in making the setting memorable. Off the accommodation grounds and out of the city, the banquet grounds rivaled the famed beauty of the Mishima Estate. The festivities themselves took place indoors, in a pillared hall bordered with oriel windows. Their entrance was monitored; one particularly bedraggled man had already been denied entrance, and he stayed behind, hurling insult but too unsteady on his feet to make a dash past the bouncers. His slurs carried in, though, and Jin Kazama's name was mentioned.

As the two made it inside, neither of them paused to survey the surroundings and see a flash of shining silver in the dark, along with the outline of a lit cigar. As Lee Chaolan sampled his fine Dominican, Kazuya could barely stand to be in his presence. Eyes firmly on the retreating Hwoarang, Lee closed his lips around the cigar and took a deep, sensuous draw. Kazuya looked at him in distaste.

"You are disgusting."

Lee didn't hurry removing the cigar from his mouth. Once he did, he said mildly, "Glass houses, brother."

Kazuya remained as disgusted, but he couldn't find a retort. He gave a nod to his associates and disappeared into the dark.

The setting was mostly Zen and, most assuredly, all Zaibatsu. There were little brooding touches to the otherwise light, old setting that never quite let the visitor forget his place. It could have been only his impression, though; Hwoarang was ready to buy that he was dancing the very fine line between usual compulsion and paranoia, and promptly decided his personal misgivings should take a backseat. Right now, there was a function to attend. There were friends to greet, opponents to antagonize, and a tournament to become familiar with. There was food for the mingling crowd, and informal socializing.

Steve spotted his training partners, Marshall Law and Paul Phoenix, and excused himself to join them, with Hwoarang's willing leave. He had other things to keep an eye on. He gave a courtesy nod to Steve's new pals, familiar faces as they were. No love lost there, even if no fight.

The turnout had been good, but not everyone was there. Most notably, the Mishimas were missing. Everyone knew who the official stars of the show were, but the Mishima associations had never kept the other hopefuls from reaching for the stars. There were murkier reasons why the clan heads, Heihachi and Kazuya, might not be making an appearance here. They were saving the big guns for the tournament and for Jin's head.

Hwoarang exchanged a few words with whom he must, but then moved surreptitiously away from the open to somewhere where he could get his back against the wall and keep an eye on things. He didn't have to wait for long. The ripple of conversation reached a plateau, giving way to the man of the hour. Hwoarang saw Jin for the first time in months.

Jin's features were handsome and harsh, his comportment flawless. The black tuxedo on Jin was impeccable. Hwoarang was suddenly glad he had dressed up and brushed his black jeans and sport jacket self-consciously.

"Welcome to the Zaibatsu Opening Gala."

The masses missed the nuances that were so obvious to Hwoarang. It was always "the company" or "the Zaibatsu." Jin never spoke of the Mishimas, had never let himself be counted as one. Even now, with all the talk about him going over the edge, Jin still refused the acknowledgement. The corner of Hwoarang's mouth quirked.

Jin was succinct, of few words. He hoped for a clean tournament, wished good luck on the upcoming matches, and bade everyone to enjoy the evening—all the while aware that the most ardent enemies had already been turned away at the door, but only the most ardent ones. He thanked the co-sponsors with all the right words. The contrast between the leisurely reception and the obvious danger in which Jin was putting himself was stark. His appearance was all about control, which never slipped. Jin smiled a wintry smile that died at his eyes.

Jin had been there to welcome the guests, but had since moved to mingle with the crowd. Hwoarang kept his distance. Being out of sight left him free to observe. There was a change that had been sudden and seemed out of place. Jin looked so . . . big. Bulked up. He was trying really hard to find a polite word for it. Hwoarang frowned and stared at the floor. It was then that that he realized why the flawless tux was stretching at the seams. Beneath the suit, Jin was wearing full battle-gear.

The realization and the sinister implications would have pulled him up short, but they were fleeting drips in the ocean. The anger that had lurked beneath was more imminent. It crept so effortlessly that Hwoarang barely acknowledged the buildup. The break-up had been the end. He had expected Jin to go back to girls, or start on them, whichever it may have been. Act as was expected of him. He had known there would be someone after him.

He had never expected it to be another man.

Hwoarang looked away and tried to calm himself, but as he looked again, the man was still there. He was not a bodyguard; Nina Williams played that part and watched Jin like a hawk from a small distance away. This man was not a bodyguard.

He and Jin were talking quietly, closely—intimately. Their heads came together close, and a private discussion was taking place. Jin's token frown had smoothed to a neutral expression. Hwoarang looked at his company. The man was handsome, masculine. Carried himself well and with dignity. His clothes accentuated a toned, muscular body, athletic build, and taste. Upswept, wildly spiked hair. Pants and dress shirt that showed off his physique. European. Hwoarang's mouth settled in a hard line. Age? Older than Jin—had to be—but he couldn't get a reading. He wouldn't have been able to guess.

Hwoarang forced himself to look elsewhere, but he soon turned to stare at the two men again. He forced himself to walk away from it and made over to the buffet table, but the food sickened him. From a distance away, Jin and the man cut his cornea like a laser.

Someone was talking to him, and he showed restraint by not smashing a plate into that someone's face. He moved out of the earshot of the speaker, but the distracting noise strengthened. It was his own blood that came rushing to his ears and to his eyes like a thick, crimson wave. He looked again, and the man had finally left Jin's side. He had finally managed to take a few precious steps away from Jin, leaving him momentarily to see to his host's duties and talk to someone else for a change. The man didn't even seem to mind being aside that much; he remained behind without further ado, content to be close by.

Someone was yapping by his ear, but the man glanced after Jin. Hwoarang pushed the plate off his hands and shook off the distraction. He made it to the middle of the floor in a few strides and charged a fist into the man's face. _"Dongseongyeonaeja!"_ Hwoarang spat.

His strike sent them man flying, but it didn't keep him down. The man hit the ground back first and, just as quickly, he pulled up, covering his nose with his hand. He had been hit hard, and it showed less than it should have. From his conversation with Marshall, Steve saw the fight in the making and took off to intervene. While Steve started to struggle through the unmoving mass, the man was on his feet and, despite holding a red-covered hand to his nose, he faced the blazing Hwoarang with equal intent.

"Stand down, soldier. I said, stand down!" Jin Kazama had emerged to the scene, but he was not addressing Hwoarang. Jin's focus and dark, brooding wrath were focused on the man. The man was immobile on his feet, though his disposition remained just as wired. Jin wrote him off without a second glance. "Get yourself cleaned up."

The man took in his stand, until he clamped his hand around his nose even tighter and bowed at Jin. Hwoarang's battle stance was ignored as the man lowered his fist and backed up before turning around and heading off. Jin watched him go, and then the dark, brooding wrath was all on Hwoarang.

Hwoarang's arms ached with tension, but he did not lower them until the man was out of sight. Once he was, Hwoarang eased off his stance, and nothing more. Jin was close—closer than in months—dark and dangerous as he had always been. Hwoarang stepped closer until he broke the boundaries of personal space. He bent a trifle and sneered so quietly that no one else could hear him, "Tight pants don't look too good on you, Kazama. You're showing a bit too much."

They were too close. Then, Jin leaned in, so close that his ear burned before he understood the words, "At least I have something to show." Jin pulled back.

At that time, Steve finally pushed past the spectators and immediately placed himself between Jin and Hwoarang. Before Hwoarang had reacted, Steve was already pushing him back and steadily restraining him. Yet, Steve's attention was on Jin. "You're a rare kind of stupid, aren't you?"

Hwoarang did not struggle past him, but Steve could feel the explosive tension of every muscle against his back and braced for an explosion. Another fury brewed at the front; his comment had singed Jin.

Whatever Jin had been about to say next never matured into words. Steve wondered about the sudden change, when the tension against his back was suddenly gone; Hwoarang had turned on his heel and taken off. From somewhere at the back of the crowd, Baek Doo San was striding into the scene. His remarks would not be glowing. Steve gave the last glare at Jin, who did not acknowledge him, and darted after Hwoarang.

* * *

The worst part of an adrenaline rush was the low that followed. Hwoarang was feeling the full weight of it, and that was how Steve found him, staring into the ceiling. Steve noticed peripherally how clean the room was—all the mess was his, and none was Hwoarang's—but Hwoarang himself took the central spot now. At seeing him, Hwoarang glanced to the side and started hauling himself up from the bed.

Steve gave a faint grin, which was meant to be encouraging, but Hwoarang didn't beat around the bush. "I'm sorry you had to get involved."

"Like I cared," Steve dismissed instantly.

"You should've just stayed on."

"Nah... There's only so much dressing smart a man can take."

Hwoarang didn't show much of a reaction, but Steve got the impression he appreciated the effort. Steve took the opportunity to remove his jacket and loosen an extra button of his shirt. He tucked the jacket away and felt more liberated instantly. Hwoarang still hadn't gotten more comfortable. He didn't seem to be going anywhere, either, and after a brief consideration, Steve grabbed himself a rickety chair, pulling up his pants legs carefully as he took a seat.

Hwoarang spoke shortly, "It's always like this. Just can't get along. It's nothing you should lose sleep over."

"That wasn't Jin you punched."

"No." Hwoarang even shrugged a little.

The explanation stopped there. Steve was waiting for more, but Hwoarang never continued the train of thought, settling instead on the oblique apology for the interrupted evening. Steve slapped his thigh lightly as though to give a beat for more talk, but there wasn't more coming. Hwoarang settled back as he shifted in his chair. Hwoarang tried to brush off how he quickly took of weight from the other hand, but Steve saw the flinch. He thought of leaving Hwoarang be, but another line of thinking was nagging at him. Steve fidgeted. He knew he was getting worked up, but the acknowledgement didn't help the agitation. Hwoarang wasn't helping; he seemed content to have the silence continue to the end of time.

Steve kicked up, barely getting an acknowledging brow in response. He finally made his mind up. "I've something to say and—if it's all the same to you—I'm just gonna say it. You don't have to pretend so hard that you and Jin weren't an item."

The world stopped rotating. Hwoarang paled. "What?"

"I know you two . . . dated. Or whatever you want to call it."

Ice sticks impaled his heart and made his blood run cold. "How?"

"Last tournament, when Jin went crazy and tried to kill you and you went back to that room you shared... I went to check on you later, to make sure you hadn't passed out or killed each other. I tried to knock several times!" There was a charged pause, and Steve finished with uncharacteristic lackluster, "Friends don't sleep like that."

Steve knew. Steve had known even before there had been anything serious. The rasp in his breath wasn't a surprise to Hwoarang himself; it was caused by the weight so big on his chest that it bedimmed actuality.

"I didn't figure you for gay. Either of you."

Steve's tone was neutral and non-accusatory. He was just asking. "Me, neither. Not sure I am, or he is."

That had been part of the problem. They had not talked about it. Hwoarang was not sure he was, and he was not sure Jin was, in the end. They had just jumped right into it.

"If you're gonna keep it under wraps, tone it down. More displays like that, and people are gonna start guessing."

The words were harsh, but Steve was right. Steve was also wrong. "Nothing to guess anymore."

Steve startled. "Really?"

"It's over," Hwoarang said, and saying it out was more painful than he had guessed. As long as he had kept it within his head, it had not been real. Saying it out loud made the difference.

"I'm sorry."

That moment, Hwoarang realized what Steve was trying to say: that it did not matter, it did not make a difference to him, and it changed nothing between them. Steve was still there. Though he hated himself for the weakness, he felt grateful.

It kind of felt good to talk about this to Steve Fox. Steve couldn't know how deeply personal this was, nor see any further meaning to it, but Hwoarang was unburdening himself of something that had been tearing him apart. At least someone knew and wasn't cutting him off.

* * *

_Dongseongyeonaeja_ is a Korean slur for a gay man.

**Many thanks** to **Gypsie** for the proofreading!

**Published** March 22, 2011.


	4. Cognitive Dissonance

Thanks for the attention!

* * *

**Chapter 4**: Cognitive Dissonance

Feet ground to the mattress, Hwoarang leaned back with a brittle laugh. The wall against his back felt disagreeable: it held neither pleasant, wooden warmth nor entrancing chill. He wrung from the wall and fluffed his hair in irritation. It was getting late at night, and he was aware how the most nugatory trifles were starting to grate on him.

It wasn't the fault of the company: of course not. Steve and he had stayed up and chatted some, pointedly steering away from any newly-uncovered esoterica, but he was ready to crawl in. The only thing keeping him up was the perceived and undisputed unfairness of life, and while he didn't will his lot on anyone, he couldn't help saying with tainted cheer, "At least you're still the same. Everyone here seems to be going out of their heads, but nothing's happened to you."

Hwoarang flung his head, sending a painful rush of blood with a wisp of hair forward, and missed the incredulous look Steve gave him.

"That's not—" The negation was drowned out when there was a knock on the door, and Hwoarang missed the hurt.

Steve went to answer. He filled the doorway as he opened the door and found Jin Kazama, dressed in all black on the other side. Jin took in the blond presence. Without batting an eye, he looked right past Steve, into the room. "Can I speak with you?"

Jin didn't even acknowledge his existence. Steve gritted his teeth dangerously as his fingers balled, but he bit the acid back with effort. Steve turned to say that Hwoarang didn't have to go and he could send Jin on his merry way, but Hwoarang was already pulling his shoes on. As Steve looked on stock-still, Hwoarang hopped off the mattress and went after Jin.

After the door closed, Jin beckoned Hwoarang to come with him. Hwoarang nodded, and Jin took the lead. Once the initial frenzy had calmed, their hasty retreat placated to strolling around. The earthen corridors were endless, but Jin seemed to know his way around. Hwoarang knew they had passed the rooms he was familiar with. He had not been in this part of the house.

The architectonic solutions were not the point of interest, however. Hwoarang had a sideways view of Jin, and he kept taking the image in. Jin's duster covered his clothes, but a glimpse of black and white peeked into view through the neck. A glance to the floor revealed shiny dress shoes to match the hint of attire underneath; Jin had come straight from the reception.

As Hwoarang continued his close study, Jin wrapped the coat tighter around himself. His steps slowed to strolling. "How have you been?" he asked. His voice was the same: pleasant and unburdened by anger. It was surreally normal.

"Not too bad, I guess," Hwoarang said, surprised when the answer came easily, on a civil note. He hunched a little and trapped his hands in his pockets.

Jin glanced at him, and Hwoarang felt the scrutiny in turn. Yet, Jin retreated without a comment to the contradictory. "I'm glad." The corridors had expanded; they were wide enough to hold the two of them side by side and peaceful enough to keep them moving nominal steps only. There were no prying eyes here, nor walls with ears. There were only corridors that were less mazelike and more open. There were only he and Jin, who had spoken in a low voice. Jin was fidgeting now. "Hwoarang, about earlier. I spoke in anger."

The funny thing was, Jin had flung him with the cruelest possible insult, and all Hwoarang could feel was resignation. He shoved his hands further into his pockets. "It's all right. Not like it wasn't true."

Jin looked at him sharply. "It's not."

Hwoarang shrugged and even gave a short laugh when he realized he was being the "bigger man."

"It's not true." Jin grabbed his arm. The unexpected motion shook Hwoarang; Jin's intensity was burning. "I never once wished anything was different. It always... pleased me." This time, it was Jin who broke away when Hwoarang's surprise at and recognition of the sincere tone came through unbridled. He seemed to realize he was still squeezing Hwoarang's arm, and he eased his grip cautiously, like a caress. A hesitant, lingering caress.

The electric current broke when Jin pulled to himself and wrapped the coat on tighter yet again. Then he changed the subject. "That man you punched. Do you know who he is? Or what he does?"

The shiver down Hwoarang's spine was involuntary. He was starting to regret the whole incident now, where he had been ambivalent about his justification all along. "It's not really my business. I'm... sorry."

"He is a commander in my army; an officer of the Tekken Force. Except he has single-handedly turned one-third of the armed forces against me and led them to rebel."

"What?"

"He will lead the attack against me. He will betray me." Jin stopped walking and leaned his head against the wall, craning backward. His eyes closed as he inhaled deeply. His hands went deep into his pockets, and he appeared dormant for a moment.

Hwoarang had stopped, too, and he was stunned with amazement. Jin could have been talking about the time of day, and, yet, he had no doubt that Jin was telling him the truth. "But you were acting so friendly."

Quickly, Hwoarang came to conclude that the surprised puzzlement in Jin's expression was genuine, and equally fast drifted to feeling like the biggest dolt on the planet. Again, Jin stepped up to save his face. "No... No. It is all for show."

"But... If you know he is a dangerous—or has been already—and you still didn't do anything, even if he'll go against you..."

Jin closed his eyes again and leaned onto the wall. "Maybe it is meant to be," he said sadly. So placidly, Jin Kazama embraced his fate.

Hwoarang wanted to grab Jin by the shoulders and shake him hard, but Jin seemed almost lost in a reverie, on another plane than he was. In a place where he couldn't be. Yet, Jin opened his eyes, and a small smile caressed his lips, just like before. Back in the present, more present than before, he pushed up and started the casual strolling again. "This is where I'm staying," he said and pointed at a door.

"You're staying here?" Hwoarang nearly jumped out of his skin. Did the other fighters know that? Did Jin even realize the risk he was putting himself into? There was a house full of mortal enemies out to get him, and he was sharing quarters with them.

"We should head back."

Jin had to know, and it made no difference to him. Their shoes sounded a steady shuffling against the floor before Jin spoke again, "I haven't heard from you in months. I never heard back from you."

Hwoarang was unsure what to say. He swallowed and said nothing. He mimicked Jin's movements unconsciously, and when Jin came to a halt, he was nailed to the spot.

"You still wear it."

It was too late to hide the chain under his shirt; Hwoarang knew what Jin was looking at. Jin had given him the silver chain and star. It had been a holiday Hwoarang hadn't known about and Jin hadn't cared about. On a family occasion, there hadn't been many people around. They had gone to the mountains and nearly made love on the bike. He still held to his heart the memory of sitting the wrong way round on the driver's seat, leaning back, as Jin was leaning forward... They had found a better place, and it had been as hot as every time they had done it. Afterward, they had gone strolling around the city, where Jin had gotten him the necklace. It wasn't anything valuable, more like a trinket, with a heavy chain, rough and rugged, and a spiked pendant. He hadn't taken it off since.

"Yeah," Hwoarang said in a whisper. His voice rasped painfully.

Jin reached forward, hesitating briefly before he slipped his fingers under the chain, marveling down its length. He ran the chain between his fingers all the way down to the pendant, which he examined with diligent attention before setting it down carefully. Jin hovered briefly, and then he pressed a hand to Hwoarang's chest.

Jin gazed at Hwoarang probingly. For the first time, their eyes locked in a connection that held. Jin finally tore his palm away and drew on. The walking resumed.

"Why are you staying with him?"

Hwoarang snorted. "I didn't fancy staying next to the orgy room."

**"What?" **Jin's eyes darkened, and Hwoarang suddenly realized that this wasn't Jin's doing. Jin hadn't known. He tried to laugh it off, but Jin's eyes were blazing. "I will see to it."

"You don't have to," Hwoarang said uncomfortably, but Jin wasn't listening.

"I will see to it," Jin repeated, and his shoulders set. Hwoarang didn't want to argue further. He continued by Jin's side until he suddenly realized that they were back at the start; the setting was familiar now, and he had been led back to the room. Hwoarang stopped clumsily, while Jin spun on his heel lightly and remained standing by his side. As they stood close by, words eluded the company until Jin said, "I should leave and let you rest for the night."

"Yeah...," Hwoarang said at the lack of something more observant to say. He shuffled his feet, fighting off the grips of blue.

Jin made to leave, no louder as a phantasm, but he didn't go far. Halting long enough for Hwoarang to notice, Jin looked to his side, not quite at him. "It was good to see you, Hwoarang." After the quiet confession, Jin left. The black clothes blended in the harrowing darkness, and his steps faded soon thereafter.

Hwoarang watched the corridor long after it was empty before grabbing the doorframe and heaving a sigh. He rested against the wall with a soft thump, bending to catch his breath as though after a strenuous exercise. He had not expected the meeting to catch him so unprepared. The collective minds were unanimous that Jin Kazama was headed down an evil path, even orchestrating a world unfathomable, but if Jin was the enemy, why was he being so kind?

No one else was moving about; he was the only one up in the dead of the night. Hwoarang had intended to go to bed, but he wasn't feeling like turning in. He could go lie down and wait for the weariness to catch on eventually, but there was a chance Steve would be up and asking questions. Hwoarang didn't feel he could deal with further analyzing now. He glanced down his garb and found the clothes decent for a long jog and thinking time. Hwoarang passed the room silently and went to look for a safe route outdoors.

* * *

**Huge thanks** to **Gypsie** for the proofreading!

**Published** April 15, 2011.


	5. Meet Lars Alexandersson

We-e-ll. That took longer than I would have liked, and since delays are rarely due pleasant reasons, it is best to settle for apologies for the fact. On the bright side, I finally took the time to look into web browsers and set up Firefox with NoScript. Goodbye, every single FF ad.

We have Chapter 5, and the fic progresses on its due course. I take this opportunity to remind everyone that your interest is much appreciated, and you can comfortably assume that your reviews will be treasured. Leave a comment any time on the way. Thanks!

* * *

**Chapter 5**: Meet Lars Alexandersson

Hwoarang woke to an empty room. The bed beside him had been abandoned and properly made. Steve had been there when he had returned, but he hadn't even stirred at Steve's rising. A vague impression that eluded full recollection was that he had heard the door at some point, but hadn't quite woken to it. Whatever the reason, Steve had left without a word.

It was for the best—the more comfortable—to be sure. Hwoarang swerved himself up. A glance at the clock put the time on the morning, late enough that night owls might still be battling post-party hangovers. There was only one way to find out for sure. Battling lassitude of his own, Hwoarang set out to follow his roommate's suit.

* * *

Out in the hallway, Hwoarang looked to his right curiously. The corridors stayed uncommunicative in their brooding, earthen furnishing, and it hadn't even crossed him that anything significant could hide off the beaten path. Yet, Jin had a room out there, somewhere. He considered taking a stroll down that way and seeing if he could find Jin's lair in the light of day, but the hunger levels were approaching critical. Even if he found the room, he wouldn't have known what to do with that piece of information. He wasn't trying to reach Jin, which rendered his interest academic.

The course of next action was clear: to the tables full of food. Not that anything so grandiose was to be expected, but it was time to tax the resources of the household. With a contemplative glance at the secluded section, Hwoarang headed to the common areas.

He was ready to breathe a sigh of relief when the trip went unimpeded. He had been able to traverse in seclusion, and the place had seemed deserted. Notions of isolation dissolved as he set foot in the kitchen. The only occupant in the room lifted his eyes from whatever he had been working on and recognized him equally fast. It was Jin's confidant, the soldier.

**_You're _**_staying here, too?_ Hwoarang's mind reeled. _What the hell kind of a game are you playing?_ The arrangements were growing more whimsical by the minute. It hadn't even occurred to him that the man might be in the tournament, participating on his own accord.

At spotting Hwoarang, the man drew up abruptly and fixed an attentive eye on him. Through a probing look at him, a glance sideways, and a chin lifted slightly, a greeting was formed.

Hwoarang grimaced, half-sheepish and half-irked, and strode closer. "Hi..." He would have liked nothing more than to whisk the whole ordeal away, but chances for an easy way out were slim. There was no use of running and putting the confrontation off any longer than necessary, even if his position discomfited him to boot. He drew his shoulders close, annoyed and not a little repentant. "I thought you were someone else."

"Can't imagine who that could be." The soldier looked at him quirkily and flat-out called his white lie. He cocked his head, and Hwoarang could have sworn he saw amusement.

"Hell," Hwoarang said without much enthusiasm and spread his hands. His predicament lasted only a little longer. This time, a glint of a mellow grin surfaced visibly. The man held out his hand.

"I am Lars Alexandersson."

Ill at ease, not really wanting to, Hwoarang stepped up. "Hwoarang."

The handshake was firm. The eyes showed intelligence and humor. Even up close, Hwoarang couldn't place a nationality on him. The hands were burning hot.

"Sorry about the—" Hwoarang gestured at his face with his free hand. Out for a whole round of contrite, he went on to look for the damage he had done, but was startled to find none. There wasn't so much as a bruise left. Older scars were spread along the man's face in an even distribution—discreet, but still there—but he hadn't left a mark. As their hands were joined, jolts crawled across his skin and jotted down his spine. It was almost like an electric current had run through him. Hwoarang let go of Lars' hand.

"It's all right. No foul done," Lars said. He was scrutinizing until a grin formed. "You throw a mean punch."

Hwoarang laughed dryly as he felt the embarrassment pulling him down. "Thanks." Now he really was a heel. Not many guys would have let it go, or been so upright about it. He was looking to detach himself from the situation and eyed around the room, aware how the vigilant eye still was on him. "I didn't know you were in the tournament."

Lars inclined his head and gave an inscrutable smile. "A visitor, one might say. I should leave you to your business." In a few swift moves, he cleared up after himself and then set on his way, saying, "Good day to you."

"Very much so," Hwoarang said sotto voce, fixatedly. He remained staring at the spot where the man had been, but the room was long empty. The man had disappeared like a shadow and left only a name behind. Hwoarang rubbed the palms of his hands to his jeans and scouted for something to eat. The rice package he found looked legit, but he was stuck reading the labels over unnecessarily. His heart was thumping.

He eventually flung the rice package on the desk, followed by a deserved curse. None spilled out, which he took for a good sign.

* * *

Hwoarang was barely out of the kitchen when fate interrupted his plans. The epitome of authority emerged and stopped him with a grave, "_Hwarang_. I will speak with you."

"Yes, master," Hwoarang said automatically. He had known the moment of truth would come, but he had hoped to ward it off for a while longer. Such hopes were futile; Baek Doo San, inspecting the premises with a regal air and a critical eye, had requested an audience and would not be parried until an audience was granted. He followed Baek's lead out of the house and onto the yard.

Away from the prying ears, Baek slowed down and settled for a calmer pace. Hwoarang slouched beside him and waited for the opening. Baek glanced at him with a furrowed brow, and the sad, stricken face would have ghosted visibly, had Hwoarang been looking. "Are you ready for this?" he said quietly.

Hwoarang started. "What do you mean?" He was even more surprised when Baek seemed distressed—reluctant to pursue the matter. The master had never shied from guidance.

"I am not unsympathetic to your ordeals at the last tournament, but revenge isn't the way. You cannot let anger control you. If you do, no matter how justified the anger, you lose focus."

The anxiety he read on Baek shut him into silence. When Baek waited for him to speak, he finally said, "It won't happen. I am ready."

"I'm not talking about justification. I am concerned for you. If the past blinds you in a match, anything can happen. There is no room for mistakes at the tournament. Earlier, it seemed like you were getting back at _Kazama Jin_, but you didn't even harm him."

"It won't happen at the tournament," Hwoarang said adamantly and held his head up high to Baek's scrutiny. He couldn't believe his luck. Baek hadn't picked on the extra nuances of the fight; he had taken it for a regular brawl and nothing more.

"Just as well," Baek said eventually with a sigh. "Be careful. This... tournament seems most peculiar. I am concerned."

Baek had noticed it, too? Of course he had, and it confirmed Hwoarang's feeling that something was off. "Always," he said lightly, but Baek's sharp look told him that the tone didn't hold water with the master.

"Self-control," Baek finally reminded and dismissed him.

Hwoarang bade goodbye with an impeccable bow. "I always preferred _indomitable spirit_, master," he said, but he took care to clear out of sight before Baek had a chance to reproach him.

Once Hwoarang was gone, Baek hmphed. Despite the worry he wasn't able to shake off, he allowed himself a smile, now that Hwoarang wasn't around to witness it. That boy had character. He hadn't missed the flash of pure fire in Hwoarang's eyes, even though he had missed it.

* * *

Something interesting caught Hwoarang's eye on the way to the training facilities. A gathering was taking place and filling the lobby. He came close to asking about the commotion when he discerned the reason for it: the lists had been posted.

_That_ was definitely interesting. He waited until the pinnacle of attention passed before navigating smoothly through the crowd. The lists comprised two plain posters with location information and names of fighters for each round. He was reading the information charts when Steve joined his company.

"Four fights."

Hwoarang looked at him sideways. He turned back to reading, but double-checking the information didn't give him any answers. He couldn't stop the frown when he finally nodded. "I'm reading three confirmed, one with Jin. And... a fourth?" He looked around the charts; some had a fourth fight scheduled, but the opponent was undisclosed. Not even a third match was a given; for some, the count stopped at two, followed by blank spaces in the schedule. "Who's the fourth?"

Steve was troubled; Hwoarang saw that effortlessly when he tore his eyes off the lists. "I don't know, but it's too little. Three matches to win the tournament? It's not enough to make any kind of a ranking, and with the Mishima Zaibatsu head so early on already..."

"It doesn't make sense," Hwoarang finished the thought for the both of them. He glanced around and keyed on the adjacent charts. "I don't get the locations. They are all over the place. Or maybe I am."

He rubbed at his eyes and paid an ounce of interest to the crowd still loitering about the lobby. Familiar faces were still there: Paul Phoenix and Marshall Law. Christie Monteiro, who was bouncing off her feet. No Mishimas. No ardent supporters of any side.

"It could be a mistake."

_Likely story._

The look from Steve put him wise to having a short supply of believers. Not that he was leading by example himself, either. Hwoarang glanced at the charts once more. Things wouldn't clear with worrying. "While waiting for impending doom, want to burn off some energy?"

Steve thought it over and reached the same conclusion. "Why not?" he said, flashing a grin.

Hwoarang slapped him in the shoulder. "I was going already. You, ready to get your ass kicked?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize you wanted to spar with someone else."

"That so?" Hwoarang almost smiled.

* * *

"Still not so great with the kicks." Hwoarang was making his way back to the room with Steve. Dirty clothes and damp hair were trivial; the rush of a practice always produced an afterglow. Only a good ribbing made the good feeling even better. "You do great at receiving them, though."

"I'll show you kicks," Steve drawled.

"You weren't showing me any. That's kind of the point."

Crossing over the lobby cut the banter. The lists were still hanging like grim commandments. The air they cast about them was almost sinister. The men exchanged a look.

"It's weird, yeah?" Steve said quietly.

"Yeah."

As they reached the room, Hwoarang pushed the door open. "Skill before beauty." Steve went in first, but not before giving him a push in the chest, which did nothing to wipe his grin off. Too pleased with himself, Hwoarang followed and shut the door behind him. While Steve went on to sort his things, Hwoarang threw himself on his mattress on the floor. His body thanked him immediately. He sighed deeply and rested his eyes. "Gotta lie down a minute, sorry."

"S'all right."

Hwoarang hadn't lain for ten minutes when there was a knock on the door. Steve jumped over him and went to get it. At hearing his name, Hwoarang started hauling himself up. Their visitor in the dark was smileless and business-like; he quickly identified the man as a tournament official.

"Hwoarang?" the man repeated.

"That's me."

"Your room is ready. I'll show you there."

_What?_

Hwoarang recovered quickly. "Right, sure. Give me a minute," he said, feeling nothing of the alleged certainty, and closed the door on the man.

"What's happening?" Steve said tightly.

Hwoarang collected his thoughts carefully. "Good things... I think," he said slowly. "They've set me up with a new room."

"You're kidding."

"Surprised me, too," Hwoarang said, but his frown was absent-minded. He tried to wrap his mind around it. Sure, he had mentioned the room problem to one single person, but... _Didn't figure he'd do anything about it._

"You don't have to go."

Hwoarang shook his head, and a small smile formed. "Thanks, Steve. I think I've taken up your space too much already. I'm kinda curious to see what's behind this. It can't be anything good."

"You haven't taken up anything," Steve said certainly. "Not a damned thing. It's been good to have you around. I wish you'd stay."

Generous to a fault. Hwoarang grabbed the back of Steve's neck between his thumb and index finger, squeezing lightly. "Hey. I'll come running to you as soon as this washes out." He tried to be casual, but he wasn't sure how much joke his words held.

He let go and went on to inspect his things. There was barely anything to pack; he had kept his things in an orderly fashion, packed in his bags—ready to go at a moment's notice. He stuffed a pullover in his bag and zipped it closed, and he was done. He grabbed the bags.

Steve was still by the door. It wasn't the end of anything, but Hwoarang had the strangest urge to grab him in a hug. He controlled the urge. A nimbus of doubt crossed his mind; he could have set the bags down and told the man outside to get lost, but that wouldn't have been him.

"See you later," he said, and Steve, clearly battling himself, opened the door without taking any happiness in it. Out in the hallway, Hwoarang nodded to the man and disappeared after him to the right-side corridor.

He was long gone when Steve looked away and slammed his hand on the door. _Yeah..._

Elsewhere, Hwoarang followed his guide in silence. He knew the route couldn't be too complicated, but tiredness and dark shapes on the way were playing with his mind. He was led away from the common areas; he didn't know that any other contesters held quarters in this part of the house. The official stopped in front of a room and pushed the door open for him. He snapped the light on, and the pleasant lighting contrasted with the eery air of the empty corridors. A nod later, Hwoarang found himself alone in the new place.

He hadn't gotten the short end of the stick. It wasn't a bad room: the surfaces were clean, the furnishings unadorned but functional. The door had a lock. There was even storage room, and Hwoarang had the overall impression of a neat, simple place to stay. The room was secluded, though—whether that was a good thing, the jury of one was still out.

The bed was comfortably sized, though, and sinfully inviting. At the moment, Hwoarang couldn't claim much interest in anything else around. He kicked his bags out of the way and went to test the mattress.

* * *

_Self-control_ and _indomitable spirit_ are both tenets of taekwondo.

**Sincere thanks** to **Gypsie** for the proofreading!

**Published** August 7, 2011.


	6. Dystopia

After a break of two and a half years (7/2011 . . . 1/2014), an update. Thanks for the reviews and inquiries after this! I know I kept you waiting, but I didn't forget you. If old friends are still around, come say hello.

* * *

**Chapter 6**: Dystopia

The mood changed overnight. The air that had been waiting, expectant, and even unwilling to act took a brooding, hellish form: the Mishima Zaibatsu had declared war.

The shock news spread like wildfire. Those with Japanese service providers and devices went online to look at and translate information for anyone else. The smart phone owners were suddenly holding all the cards. Xiaoyu was there, along with a Japanese girl—Asuka?—who both were targeted as the best sources of information.

Hwoarang woke to the general commotion that crawled through the house like a thing alive. He took in his new room: nothing seemed especially unusual in the light of day. He got up and started pulling his clothes on. Just in case, though, he locked the door and took the key with him as he left.

He counted turns and corridors as he went. He'd been right on one account: the room was isolated. It was cut off from the bulk of population, even when the walk back didn't seem as dramatic as it had in the dead of night. He hadn't been entirely right about the house, though; compared to the last haunted digs, there was more sparse room—definitely an intricate design hiding in the dark-paneled walkways. He didn't know if the fact was meaningful, but he carefully committed it to memory.

The mash of noise cleared into audible voices as he got closer. He quickly picked what had happened.

He didn't mention that he still had a phone with a local connection.

He circled the lobby, observing. They were a mixed bag of people. Mostly Americans, no associates of the main lineage. No Mishima henchman in sight, no insiders of the tournament or G Corporation. Almost all were foreigners, and he hadn't meant that as a slight because he was one, too. All they had were their smart phones. As he watched the crowd huddled over them, he knew they were off track. They wouldn't find answers here.

"I think I'm going to the city to find out more," he said slowly.

He hadn't intended his remark for anyone, but someone picked up by his side.

"I'll come with you," Steve said immediately.

"That's not necessary. I'm better off alone."

"Nonsense. Count me in, guv."

Hwoarang smiled tightly.

He didn't want Steve to come with him. Hwoarang bit his teeth and tried to bite back the bile. When he failed to think of an actual reason why Steve shouldn't, he shrugged. "Pack tight. It's gonna be a cold ride."

"Aight," Steve conceded.

Hwoarang went to get his gear from his room while Steve, presumably, did the same. As he cleared out the house, he cast a thoughtful look at the contestants pecked in the lobby. They had been as badly struck by this as he had. He was right to go to the city, even when he was doing it with extra baggage. He fixed the collar of his tight leather jacket as he went to take the bike out.

Steve joined soon after, and Hwoarang chucked his helmet at him. If there was a war waging, he was hopeful the law wasn't too interested in a single biker without one. He wasn't sure if he was taking a novice with him and gave the basics to Steve, who seemed to be fine with them and kept his balance as they took off. The property was unguarded, and there were no gates to hold them back.

The bike ride was a relief, though: it didn't require interaction of him, and he tried to contain his annoyance at Steve's arms around him. He wasn't completely senseless: he knew Steve needed them, but couldn't he just have held on to the grips? His arms erred elsewhere very briefly, only to return on him. Hwoarang bit back his temper and tried to focus on the road. He knew he was a little touchy and a lot edgy, which was why he would have preferred to ride solo. The surroundings blanked out the closer they arrived at the heart of Tokyo. The outer skirts of the prefecture hadn't shown damage or boomed gunfire, but the real shock of the events came as they closed in on the city. Hwoarang cut down speed and switched off the main routes.

Hwoarang reduced speed and hunched his shoulders tighter. The closer they got to the city, the less comfortable he grew. The city was wrong. He couldn't necessarily see anything out of place, but he felt it. Behind him, he could feel Steve tensing. _So, not the only one feeling it?_

The closer they got to the high-rise district he was familiar with, the better Hwoarang could see that the unrest hadn't yet reached the city. The streets were oddly deserted, but there wasn't anything too off. It was just the gut feeling.

_No. Not just the gut feeling._

Hwoarang felt Steve squeeze his arm and nodded. He wanted to set out on foot, too. He pulled aside and left the bike parked. He looked around with a frown. "Leave it," he said to Steve, who juggled with the helmet and seemed to debate whether to take it along.

Side by side, they started looking around. The buildings stood where they may, and hosted no lost souls. The district that had previously been brimming with life had become a ghost town. The population had been decimated despite the lack of an apparent threat.

As they wandered around, nothing new emerged. The city was desolate. Hwoarang wondered if he had picked the wrong district to visit. Maybe the developments had affected business, but it shouldn't have affected the populace so. He was inclined to think he wasn't witnessing an isolated occurrence.

"Maybe we should head back?" Hwoarang said reluctantly. The empty blocks were enough to convince him he wasn't going to see anything like this. He inched to edge deeper into the concrete jungle, but he couldn't do that with Steve tagging along and watching over him. The extra eye on him grated, even though he knew it was irrational.

Luckily, Steve seemed to feel the same way. Hands rounding into loose fists, he swung on his feet and walked back first, still looking over the concrete buildings that rose to flank the street. "Yeah, I guess. I still don't get it. Where's everyone?" Steve hissed, a little annoyed, and gestured around haplessly, "Where's the war?"

"Wars are not fought every hour of the day. It can still be true," Hwoarang pointed out. He gave the same frown at the stillness and muttered sotto voce, _"Forests are never silent."_

"What's that?"

"Nothing. Don't mind me," Hwoarang was quick to amend.

Steve stopped. "I kind of have to: You're my ride out of here."

Hwoarang punched his arm not too gently. "Let's go. Asshole," he muttered.

"That wasn't really called for," Steve said, and Hwoarang shrugged. There was nothing they could accomplish by staying, and he acceded to the fact. Steve followed him as he headed back for the bike. He gave a glance under his brow as he juggled the helmet. "Tell me I'm not the only one feeling it."

Hwoarang drew eyes on him sharply. His shoulders tightened as he fiddled with the bike. "I don't know what it is. The city's . . . off." He didn't miss the tense look before Steve's eyes momentarily disappeared behind the chinbar. The bike came to life with a relieving roar that sounded unnaturally loud in the hollow emptiness that engulfed them. Steve climbed behind him quite unanimously, and Hwoarang was back on the road. He didn't linger.

* * *

Nothing had changed at the house when they got back. Most likely after convening and breaking up more than once, a number of fighters were still debating in the lobby and still trying to make sense of the latest development. Hwoarang crept up to the lobby, measuring the crowd, and pulled up a seat for himself. His tag-along exchanged looks with him, and pressed his lip into a rueful smile: they didn't have anything to contribute to the ongoing speculation. Hwoarang thought their absence had gone mostly ignored until he heard a chirpy voice insisting, "Where have you been?"

Xiaoyu had him pinned by the sheer force of will, and Hwoarang straightened from his slouching.

"Uh..."

Xiaoyu tiptoed to him. Her usual cheer had dropped to an anxious look. She was chewing on her lower lip as she clutched the phone in her hand. From the corner of his eye, he saw the flash of colorful news headlines before she tapped the screen nervously, and the title was replaced by something else.

"They're saying it's an actual war," Xiaoyu breathed out.

"Yeah, I guess...," Hwoarang said hesitatingly.

"But we're here for a tournament. We're not here to make war. Will... will they protect us?"

Others were listening in, too.

Hwoarang had tried so hard to stay out of it, but he feared he would be forced to pick sides before long. Xiaoyu's eyes were pleading with him, but he couldn't bring himself to lie.

Hwoarang looked away.

* * *

He was probably the only one around. The house had gotten an early night, but Hwoarang hadn't felt need for one. The lights had been turned off for the most part, but Hwoarang navigated through the house with ease. The sudden break from the dark tranquility was so unheralded, Hwoarang reacted without thinking: he jumped back, just in time to make it out of sight before he would have been spotted.

He wasn't the only one around.

Hwoarang peered around the corner just in time to see the passing figures, and suddenly the knee-jerk reaction didn't seem like so shameful. He would have recognized the dark, brooding presence and a touch of red malice anywhere: _Kazuya Mishima_. His heavy steps were tailed by a slinky shadow. Hwoarang had ample time for identification, and had no desire to be seen by her, either.

Just as the Kazuya had emerged unexpectedly, he and his companion disappeared into the night. Hwoarang ventured forth and couldn't hear anything out of place beside the occasional coughs and thumps from occupied rooms. He explored into the corridor from where Kazuya had come, but found nothing out of the ordinary. They could have been headed out from the direction they were going, but did that mean Kazuya was staying in the tournament house? At least his team was well-versed in its location, sneaking off like thieves into the night. Hwoarang found the growing mystery much to his distaste: they were sitting on a powder keg.

Hwoarang returned to his room after little exploration. There was little to do, and turning in sounded as good an option as any. The night had set in by stealth.

He was still pondering the crazy day when there was a knock at his door. Hwoarang left the bed and received his second shock that night when he opened the door: it was Jin. In all black, as if designed to fit with the shadows.

Jin looked away. "I can't sleep."

Whatever Hwoarang had been thinking about Jin and his private war-waging waded into oblivion instantly. It stopped being significant. He knew how Jin's nightmares were; had never known anyone to suffer from more excruciating stints.

"Is it bad?" he said quietly.

Jin swallowed and nodded quickly. He kept his head turned away.

Hwoarang stepped back. "Come on."

Jin slipped into the room, and Hwoarang closed the door behind him. He took a moment to study his former partner: the brooding black Jin wore seemed almost like a mentality. Jin didn't engage likewise; past the dark look, he seemed pale, miserable. Fatigued in a way that corroded Hwoarang's enmity.

"Can I sleep with you?"

Hwoarang shifted uncomfortably. He opened his mouth to tell Jin off, and nothing came out. He shifted a look at the bed, buying himself time. Jin waited by without saying a word.

"Yeah, sure," he said. His tone was a little peeved, but he gestured at the bed, and Jin accepted the invitation gratefully. He took his shoes off and moved in while Hwoarang went to lock the door. Jin was very careful to leave him room and let him have his space, and Hwoarang really couldn't find fault in his guest manner. Hwoarang checked that he was settled. Their eyes met just as Hwoarang snapped the light off. The sheets shuffled when they tried to make themselves comfortable. Hwoarang turned his back and pulled the pillow under his head.

In the darkness, Jin took a while before saying a quiet thanks.

"Get some sleep, Jin," Hwoarang said to the wall, but it wasn't unfriendly.

In the night, he woke to feel Jin's head pressed against his back. Jin was resting against him, sleeping peacefully, and for a moment, he started to twist up, ready to push Jin off. He hesitated, though, and eventually settled back down without doing anything.

* * *

**Published **January 7, 2014.

**Deepest thanks** to **Gypsie** for the proofreading!


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